


Hell

by SecretAgentCodenameBob



Category: Dickensian - Fandom
Genre: Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Pain, like a lot of pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5722168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretAgentCodenameBob/pseuds/SecretAgentCodenameBob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early hours of New Years Day, Arthur Havisham recalls the events of the night before and comes to the simple conclusion - he is in hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for the BBC show Dickensian (hopefully the first of many!). Really love the dynamic between Compeyson and Arthur in the show and wanted to explore that relationship a bit more. This is set just after the opening of Episode 5 - hope you enjoy!

Hell isn't like the stories your parents tell you as a child, with horned demons wielding pitch forks, gleefully twisting toe racks and guarding iron maidens. Hell isn't what the stern, solemn preachers describe on Sunday, their voices reverberating around the deathly silent church in a pretense of grave meditation on their immortal souls. Hell isn’t a place of fire and brimstone, scorching hot and screaming red. No, Arthur Havisham knew very well the truth. Hell was not hot.

Hell was cold.

Bitter, freezing, numb. The cold that stops you breathing, stops you thinking. The kind that smothers you in your sleep.

Arthur knew because that was the only explanation for his current circumstance; he was in hell. He had to be. Only hell could account for the sharp, overwhelming pain which pierced his chest every time he gasped in a breath. Even sitting by the fire, glass of brandy in his hand and dull burn down his throat, even that couldn't chase away the cold. Couldn't stop it numbing out everything, almost everything, except the pain.

Compeyson had left some time ago. After learning all he could about Amelia’s friend, off he went, hatching the next plan to work his way into his sister’s good graces. The thought made his stomach squirm. Hastily Arthur took a swig of drink, grimacing at the bitter taste lingering on his lips.

“God, what am I doing?” he murmured, glass hanging limply by his side, “I must be the most pathetic man in creation.”

_Why are you crying?_

Helpless, Arthur closed his eyes, resigned to the tide of memories which had been pressing at his consciousness for the last hour. Exhaling slowly, Arthur gave in. He remembered.

A warm hand had reached for his, and found it. A spark of hope that he hadn't felt since the contents of the will were read burst out into a small smile. Hope for reconciliation. Hope for a future. Hope which surely evaporated as the evening progressed.

Arthur had all but forgotten what these social gatherings were like. The unshakeable gnawing feeling that you were on parade, like a hunchback in a freak show. He awkwardly stepped backwards as a man shuffled past him, sparing a cursory “pardon me” as he went by. Without meaning to Arthur found his eyes following that man’s movements, watching the exuberant joy light up in his eyes as he found his young wife, tracking the gentle way he caressed her hand, her arm, her cheek-

Arthur wrenched his gaze away, quickly scanning the room to see if anyone had noticed his rather rapt attention. No one had, of course. They never did. He exhaled slowly, relief making his stomach feel too heavy and too light at the same time. Funny how he had forgotten the old fear, now settled familiarly in his chest. The fear that someone would just look at him and _know_. That somehow, someone in the crowd of proper ladies and gentleman would be able to smell it on him. His un-belonging. His wrongness.

He hastily downed his drink. Come on Arthur, he told himself shifting closer against the wall, no one is even thinking about that, let alone looking for it amidst their peers. Most of them have probably never had it cross their minds. Just because you’re broken doesn’t mean they are too.

He stole a quick glance at the couple again - the girl caught his eye, giggled and waved. Arthur wanted to scream.

Fear and alcohol and anger and pain, most of all pain, had sent him to his father’s study. Staring up at that old portrait, pleading in his mind with the ghost of a dead father, he had never felt so pathetic. _I tried so hard to be normal. Please, I tried and it almost killed me. I'm sorry that I was so wrong that you gave control of your estate to your daughter rather than give it to the embarrassment of a son who is worth even less than a woman. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but I can’t. I just can't._

He knew he was crying from the burning feeling in the corner of his eyes but he couldn’t feel the moisture track down his face. It made him angry. No wonder his father had trusted Amelia over him; he was weak. So weak.

Suddenly, his nerves prickled. Arthur had always been conscious of when he was being watched. Jolted he turned. And saw.

Him. Immediately Arthur felt the back of his neck flush in shame. Words tumbled out instinctively, sudden threat of discovery shaping his speech. He didn’t want him to see him like this; he could look but he could never see. He shouldn’t even be there. _Get out._

“Why are you crying?”

The words had cut through the numbness like a knife - no, it wasn't the words. It was that voice. The tone and quality and intonation and timbre of the voice which caressed his thoughts each night as he fell asleep, the voice which whispered in his dreams, the voice which haunted him waking and sleeping since he first met the man. Instinctively, he swallowed.

And then the question registered in his brain and whatever that- that feeling he’d felt was swamped by anxiety. Compeyson must not know; any of it. What he was, what he felt. He could already feel the power slipping in their relationship, indeed his very presence at the party was telling. If he ever found out it would ruin him. Completely.

“I'm not.”

The next few minutes flew by, sheer panic at Amelia’s presence driving him forwards, the mantra ‘no one must know, no one must know’ which had lived with him since he first realised ringing loudly in his ears. Only slightly louder than _his_ voice.

_Why are you crying?_

It had been surprisingly easy to smile, even to laugh, as he danced with Amelia. Bloody miraculous considering every pore in his body was screaming. Still, she looked like a great weight had lifted from her shoulders and Arthur should be happy, damn Compeyson. So what if the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

And then Amelia was being whisked away. Compeyson. Always Compeyson. His head felt ready to explode with it all; the all encompassing panic and fear. And something else, something in his gut, seething. Jealousy? No. Surely not. _No._

Arthur’s hand tightened into a ball as a small surge of possessiveness shot through him - over which of the two? He had no idea. All he knew was seeing them together was indescribably wrong - it was unexpectedly painful. It hurt. In mere seconds however that had turned to dread. He watched Compeyson stride out of the room, watched Amelia’s face turn to appear drained of all vitality and energy. 

Arthur had looked away to search for a decanter.

_Why are you crying?_

Stumbling home - no, not home, he had no home - Arthur could barely feel the winter’s night chill against his face. The faint music of the party followed him down the street, sweetly mocking him as he desperately tried to stay upright. He had tried to stay till midnight, till the New Year but his chest had turned to ice and everything was shouting get out. Get out. _Get. Out._

Finally he opened the door to his pathetic lodgings. It didn't feel any warmer. Slowly he closed the door, shutting out the sound of arguing somewhere. Finally. Peace.

Then Arthur turned and- _No. Please, no._

For the first time that evening Arthur felt warmth flood his body in the most delectable, agonising way. He knew that man didn't care two coppers for him and if ever he discovered the deep, hidden urges Arthur Havisham had been repressing since the day they met he would most likely never see him again but the way he was lying on that bed. On his bed. 

Compeyson smirked.

For one glorious second Arthur stopped thinking. There was no right or wrong. No past or future between them. Just the present, just Compeyson lying on Arthur’s bed. So beautiful in the low light that it made his chest ache. A cocksure, lazy smile twisting his mouth that was so, so inviting. So easy to meld with his own. Despite everything he’d told himself, everything the world around proclaimed as wrong Arthur instantly stopped caring. How could this be wrong? The only thing that was wrong would be not joining Compeyson right then and there, discovering if he tasted as good as he looked, turning that honeyed, arrogant voice into breaths and sighs and _moans_. Nothing in history could ever be more right than that.

Perhaps it was only the pain in his chest that had stopped him.

Arguing, testing, questioning. Arthur couldn't, not tonight, not after all the drinks, not after seeing him lying there like that, not knowing the agony it was putting him through. Not after being reminded of all he could have had and all that had been taken away from him. His chance at a happy, prosperous, normal life with his rightful inheritance and a beautiful wife and a family - hopes crushed, then spat back in his face. He had reached breaking point.

_Why did your father stop loving you Arthur?_

Arthur groaned, stopping his memories with what little willpower he had left. He felt like he was about to be sick. Rising from the dwindling fire he shuddered to his bed, glass clattering to the carpeted floor, empty.

Not even attempting to undress he fell into his sorry excuse for a bed, hearing the mattress groan underneath his weight. Sleep would be the release from this hellish existence; Arthur only prayed that the alcohol would keep the dreams at bay. Dreams of father. Of Amelia. Of Compeyson. 

Slowly rolling onto his side Arthur breathed in- and nearly choked. God, it smelt of him. The pillow, duvet, mattress: it was all him. A whimper escaped his throat. He should sleep on the chair, the floor, anywhere but here. He knew the alternative would be immeasurably painful, especially after tonight.

Yet, unbidden, he inhaled again. And again. Head pressed firmly into the pillow where Compeyson’s head had been resting such a short time ago, where his hair had been splayed out across the fabric, arm lazily thrown behind his head. He must have been lying there for hours.

The stark image, imprinted firmly in his mind, drew a choked sob from his chest. Desperately, he breathed in deeper, letting the scent permeate through the numbness. He knew this was wrong. Very little was probably as wrong as this, as him. Yet, Arthur was so tired and drained by the persistent cold which had become his existence he needed warmth like air to breathe. Needed the heat that inhaling another man’s essence was sending coursing down his body. Needed the feeling of his neck burning, of his cheeks flushed crimson at the thought of Compeyson being with him now. Needed the burning at the pit of his stomach that was nearly incapacitating him.

_Why did your father stop loving you Arthur?_

He should have thrown him out. He should have punched him for even daring to ask. He should never have let himself be turned around to see those beautiful eyes, that perfect mouth so close to his own.

Arthur had felt the moment his will broke. It was the tiniest of movements. Just a small shift in weight, forwards. Imperceptible. So easy, so natural. His body simply answering a call which he had fought against for years.

Yet it changed everything. Because as Arthur moved forwards, Compeyson moved back.

He saw when Compeyson’s eyes widened in sudden realisation and shock and...disgust? Was that disgust? Maybe Arthur was imagining that. He wasn't even sure it was happening at all. But the pain in his chest was so intense it was almost crippling. Like a tortured animal he had turned away, letting slip a thin whimper of utter distress and despair.

Someone knew. Worse, _he_ knew. Shame flooded Arthur, clawing at him from the inside and throughout the following conversation and then Compeyson’s departure it was the only thing he could focus on. Shame.

So he did the only thing he knew how. Drink.

Curled up in a bed that smelt so much of him, inhaling broken sobs, tear tracks streaked down his face, Arthur Havisham knew the truth about hell. Hell was losing everything you ever wanted in a single day. Hell was being born broken. 

Hell was breathing in a man’s scent over and over and over again knowing he sees you only as an opportunity, as a gamble, as something wrong.

Arthur Havisham knew hell quite intimately. It was not hot, but cold.

And it was all he had left.


End file.
